


you otter know better

by lilcrickee



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Animal Transformation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 14:17:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11579772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilcrickee/pseuds/lilcrickee
Summary: "Once an Otter, always an Otter, right?"Merks sighs, like this entire conversation is testing his patience. “No, Connor. I mean. Dylan literally turned into an otter as soon as the awards show ended. Like an actual, honest-to-God semi-aquatic mammal.”





	you otter know better

**Author's Note:**

> literally no regrets for the pun in the title.
> 
> big thanks to gigantic for breathing life into this fic and then for reading it over and leaving cute (and helpful!) comments all over the place. love ya!
> 
> i am aware that there are other dylan-the-otter fics in this fandom. all similarities are purely coincidental, however if you have an issue with anything, please feel free to contact me through the social media links in the end notes. cheers.

The start of Connor’s summer goes a little bit like this:

1\. He spends a handful of weeks holed up in his parents’ house, trying to lay low and generally being pretty lazy. It’s hard to go anywhere when people are inclined to stop him on the street to tell him he’s their favourite player, or how they actually cheered for the Oilers in the playoffs, or how he’s leading the team into a new dynasty. 

Connor hates that word. _Dynasty._

So he stays inside for a couple weeks and fields text messages from teammates past and present, and tries not to think about how out of all the messages he does receive, he doesn’t get one from Dylan.

That’s fine. Dylan’s busy and they’re not friends anymore anyway, so Connor doesn’t know why he’s waiting around for a message that isn’t going to come.

2\. He goes to the Memorial Cup in Windsor for one night, and not even the night that the Otters are playing. His agent tells him it'll be good for Connor to be there, that fans will like the idea of Connor coming out to support the tournament even though he's never been to it as a player. 

And if people make assumptions about him and the Otters, so be it.

He doesn't see the Otters and he doesn't try to get in touch. It's not his tournament and not his team, and even though Connor’s living out his NHL dream, the reminder still stings a little more than he thought it would. 

3\. He goes to Las Vegas, wins all the awards there were for him to win, and then gets a call from Nick Merkley at ten o’clock at night when Connor’s mostly drunk on mini-bar vodka.

Connor stares curiously as his phone vibrates on the table next to him. He’s been ignoring calls and texts all night, knows all of them are just people congratulating him. Which is nice, but he doesn’t really want to hear from people who maybe met him once at so-and-so’s party back in high school. Merks isn’t like that, but Connor feels too drunk to want to pick up the phone anyway.

Except as soon as the call goes to voicemail, Merks calls again. And again, and again. It occurs to Connor, belatedly, that it might be something important, so on the fifth call, he finally picks up.

“Merks,” he greets, and tries not to cringe at how the word comes out slurred.

“Davo, hi,” Merks replies. He sounds a little breathless. Maybe he’s starstruck, which would be a little weird and a lot uncomfortable. Connor doesn’t really know how to feel about that, is mulling the thought over when Merks adds, “Uh, congrats on all your awards but um, we have a crisis.”

Connor perks up a little. A crisis? Someone else is having a worse meltdown than he is? What a concept. “What’s up?” he asks.

“It’s Dylan - “ Merks starts to say, which immediately scrambles Connor’s brain, something akin to panic running sluggishly through his veins.

“That’s not really - “ he starts as Merks cuts him off with, “He’s an otter.”

Which - what? Connor rolls the words around in his head for a moment. “I mean, I guess,” he settles on finally. He fiddles with one of the half empty vodka bottles on the table in front of him. “Once an Otter, always an Otter, right? Or like. You’re a Rocket. So like. You know? But then would you be, like, a spaceship? Or would you be one of those weird dragon things?” That’s a funny thought. Otters are cute and dragons are cool. Connor can’t help but snicker a little.

Merks sighs, like this entire conversation is testing his patience. “No, Connor. I mean. Dylan literally turned into an otter as soon as the awards show ended. Like an actual, honest-to-God semi-aquatic mammal.”

As if on cue, there’s a weird chirping sound from Merks’ end of the line. Kind of squeaky, really. Almost giggly. It makes Connor giggle too. “Hey, that’s pretty good,” he says. The squeaking gets louder, and Connor laughs some more. He feels a little delirious from all the alcohol he’s consumed. 

“Give me the phone,” someone who is not Nick Merkley says. There’s a weird scuffling noise and then the voice says, “Connor, it’s Lawson.”

Connor hasn’t talked to Lawson in a long time. He feels a little bad about it. Although, to be fair, he hasn’t talked to a lot of his draft class in a while. Somehow, that doesn’t make him feel any better.

“Crouser, hi,” he replies. His syllables run together a little. “Merks was telling me a funny story.”

Lawson sighs. If Connor closes his eyes, he can pretend that Law’s pinching the bridge of his nose like old people do in sitcoms. It’s a funny image. Everything seems to be a little funnier now that the world is tinted with alcohol.

“Look,” Lawson says, cutting through the haze in Connor’s head. “I know you’re celebrating and you probably don’t want to hear this, but seriously. Dylan is an otter and we don’t know what to do about it.”

The squeaking starts up again, but it sounds more urgent than cute, like it did before. Connor thinks it sounds a little sad, which he can commiserate with. He raises the half empty vodka bottle in salute, a silent _I’ll drink to that!_ , before draining the rest of it. Connor’s had enough by now that it doesn’t even burn as it slides down his throat.

“Prove it,” Connor says. He feels warm all over. “Let me see your otter.”

Lawson sighs again. It’s a familiar sound, the sigh of the long-suffering. Every coach Connor’s ever had learned how to perfect that sigh.

Suddenly, the phone starts ringing again. Connor pulls it away from his face and squints at the fuzzy looking photo of Merks requesting a Facetime call. The picture is a couple years old, taken at the combine. Connor hasn’t really seen Merks since, he figures.

He spends so long staring at Merks’ picture that he almost forgets to answer the call. 

Merks’ face is instantly replaced with an otter. It takes one look at Connor and then starts squeaking rapidly. It butts its nose against the screen and then makes a yowling noise so loud that Connor cringes.

Just because there’s an otter on the screen does not mean that the otter is Dylan, because that would be ridiculous. People don’t just spontaneously turn into otters. That’s not how the universe works. 

And yet, something uneasy stirs in Connor’s stomach.

“Jesus, Crouser. Make him shut up. The neighbours will complain.”

A hand appears in the frame, reaching for the otter, who just keeps making upset screeching noises. The hand closes around the otter’s middle, and then the otter bites it. Connor watches it all with a morbid fascination as the hand retracts, the phone falls to the ground, and the otter leans over the camera.

It has beady little eyes and a big black nose. Connor thinks it would be pretty cute if he hadn’t just seen it draw blood. 

“Fuck, he bit me.” Lawson sounds distant and tinny on the phone. Someone else says something that Connor can’t really hear. 

The otter is still staring at him.

Connor stares back, his stomach rolling unpleasantly. 

It looks like any other otter that Connor has seen (on the Internet). There’s absolutely nothing about it that indicates that it’s actually Dylan in disguise, but why would Merks call him if it weren’t true? They haven’t talked in two years. You don’t randomly call up your buddy about animal transformations if it’s not for real, do you?

Connor fortifies himself. _Hockey gods, give me strength,_ he thinks, and then says out loud: “Dylan? Is that actually you?”

The otter’s ears perk up. Its mouth curls in what could almost be a grin, and then it makes a happy barking noise. 

The last thing Connor thinks before he’s consumed with throwing up the contents of the hotel mini-bar is that he’s now acknowledged the fact that his former best friend maybe has gotten himself turned into an otter. 

 

Once upon a time, Connor and Dylan were friends. There had been no animosity between them, no fighting, no nothing. Connor’s mom had always said that they were as close as two people could be without being _that_.

And then jealousy reared it’s huge and ugly head.

Or, at least, that’s what Connor figures. He’s no stranger to people being jealous of his on-ice skills. (There’s nothing for them to be jealous of off the ice, as far as Connor’s concerned. He’s an awkward guy that no longer has the excuse of being a teenager to hide behind). Dylan had always been different though. Dylan had already been living in someone else’s shadow; falling into Connor’s hadn’t ever been an issue for him.

“You and me, Davo,” Dylan had said the last night of Dylan’s first season with the Otters. “We’re going to be best friends, and we’re definitely going to crush ‘em next year.”

Connor wonders if his shadow got too long. Dylan stepped out of Ryan’s the moment he went third in the draft but maybe Connor’s shadow has been harder to escape. 

The fight happened in November, the day Dylan got sent back to the Otters and five days before the Coyotes and the Oilers were supposed to play each other.

“It sucks,” Connor had said over Facetime while Dylan packed up his hotel room. “But, I mean, I guess there’s a bright side, right?”

Dylan had looked tiredly at Connor. There were dark circles under his eyes and thinly concealed anger sitting under his skin. “Yeah?” he’d said, cocking his head to the side. “And what would that be?”

“Another chance at the Mem Cup? And World Juniors. I know you feel bad about - “

“Connor,” Dylan had interrupted, turning away from the camera. “Don’t.”

“What did I say?”

“All the wrong things.” When Dylan had turned back, the anger was no longer concealed. It was plain as day across his face, and Connor had suddenly felt uneasy. Dylan didn’t get mad at him. Dylan was always happy to see him, excited and talkative and willing to take Connor’s mind off of anything and everything. 

“Dyls - “

“You don’t get it,” Dylan had said. “You don’t understand because you’ve never done this before.”

Connor has replayed that fight many times over in his head since it happened. He wonders if there’s anything he could have done differently over the course of that season they’d been apart, wonders if he had just paused the conversation right there and go back in time, if it all would have turned out alright. Like in a movie or something.

_record scratch, freeze frame._ Yep, that’s me. You’re probably wondering how I got here. _rewind._

Maybe if he had spent more time texting Dylan that year. Connor had been trying not to rub it in Dylan’s face, but maybe if he’d actually spent more time talking about the NHL, it would have been easier.

Or maybe Dylan would’ve been extra resentful and they would’ve fought earlier. Try again.

_record scratch, freeze frame._ Yep, that’s me. You’re probably wondering how I got here. _rewind._

Maybe if Connor had tried to give Dylan more advice, be more of a captain than a friend. Dylan’s a good leader, Connor’s always known this, but it’s helpful to have someone to guide you along.

Or maybe Connor would have given the wrong advice and Dylan’s season would’ve tanked and they’d fought in the summer instead. Nope, try again.

_record scratch, freeze frame._ Yep, that’s me. You’re probably wondering how I got here. _rewind._

Maybe Connor never makes the Oilers that year after the draft. He gets sent back to the Otters instead and he and Dylan win gold in Helsinki at the World Juniors and lead the Otters in claiming the Memorial Cup. Then Connor would understand what it’s like to be sent back, plus he’d have won everything important with his best friend.

Except for how Connor can’t imagine giving up his time in the NHL for anything. Playing hockey is all he’s ever wanted, and playing hockey at the highest level he can has always been what he does. He knows - and Dylan does too, probably - that getting sent back to the Otters would’ve been the worst thing that could have happened. Try again.

_record scratch, freeze frame, rewind. record scratch, freeze frame, rewind. record scratch, freeze frame, rewind, rewind, rewind._

Connor spends a lot of time wondering about these things as he gets on a plane going from Las Vegas to Phoenix. It’s weird to think that he’s the one getting called out for this, but he figures it’s maybe just because he’s already on this side of the continent and therefore, conveniently close. Connor’s sure that if they were available, Merks would have called Marns or Brinks instead. Connor’s probably just the absolute last, Emergency-with-a-capital-E contact. He’d texted Merks back this morning, just to make sure he didn’t drunk-dream the whole thing, but Merks had sent a lot of exclamation marks and some red alert emojis. Whatever’s happening, Connor figures he better go. If nothing else, it’ll be nice to see Merks and Lawson again.

He closes his eyes as the plane taxis out onto the runway. There’s a throbbing pain right behind his eyes, courtesy of a spectacular hangover, and the crying baby somewhere in the cabin is doing nothing to help. Really, Connor doesn’t want to go from one desert city to another. But - he is kind of curious. If it’s all some elaborate prank, then maybe Connor can go about trying to repair what may be left of his friendship with Dylan. And if it’s true - well. 

Connor sighs. If it’s true, then he’ll just figure out what to do with that when he has to.

 

Connor gets an Uber from the airport to Lawson’s condo in Glendale. It’s a bit expensive, but Connor’s due for a contract extension this summer and - and he knows it’s going to be a big one. He can probably splurge on a car service to rescue his ex-best friend from immediate otter-related problems.

Lawson looks a little worse for wear when he opens the door. His hair is a mess and there’s scratch marks along his collarbones where they peak out from under his t-shirt. Any other time, Connor might chirp him about a feisty hook-up, but the scratches look too small to belong to a human.

“Thanks,” Lawson says, ushering Connor through the door. “He’s just. He’s so much.”

Which honestly sounds like Dylan on any given day, really, so Connor just nods and allows himself to be led through the apartment to the bathroom. He catches a glimpse of Merks and Jakob Chychrun sacked out on the L-shaped sectional in the living room. Merks looks like he’s missing a tuft of hair near his temple.

“I know Stromer’s always kind of a mess, but something happened to him,” Lawson says tiredly. “He’s like, completely savage. I’m never going to be able to enjoy a picture of an otter again.”

He’s talking to Connor like Connor’s supposed to know about the kind of teenage-trainwreck Dylan’s life has turned into in the last year or so. It’s weird. Is Lawson just ignoring the fact that Connor hasn’t talked to Dylan in a year?

They stop in front of the bathroom door, which is closed. There’s muffled screeching from behind it and then the sound of something solid hitting the door. _Thump!_ Connor jumps a little. 

There’s a hockey stick leaning up against the wall next to the door. Lawson grabs it and then motions for the door handle. “Try not to let him out,” he says. Connor eyes him warily.

“Do you, like, beat him with that thing?” he asks. He’s aiming for joking but he’s a little worried too.

Lawson scowls. “I’m not stupid, Davo. We just use it to hook him if he tries to escape. Like a shepherd’s crook.”

“You … herd him with it.”

“He likes to bite,” Lawson says. “I’m kind of afraid I have, like, an STD or something now.”

Connor’s hand pauses on the door handle. The thing - the _otter_ \- on the other side of the door scratches at the paneling. “What?”

Lawson huffs. “The dude picks up more than the rest of us combined. I’m just a little worried.”

Huh. Connor’s stomach knots itself a little, but Connor’s not really sure what it’s from. Even when they were on the Otters together Dylan hooked up whenever he wanted to. Connor’s not his keeper; it’s not really any of his concern who Dylan sleeps with.

“Okay, well, go get tested or something,” Connor says, shaking his head a little and twisting the door knob. He’s only got the door open less than a foot before a sleek, brown blur zips out between his legs, shrieking loudly and scrabbling against the hardwood floors.

“Shit,” Lawson mutters. His stick snaps out to try and snag the otter as it runs down the hall, but either the otter’s smarter than he looks or they’ve done this too many times, because he just hops over the blade and scurries off towards the living room. 

“Otter incoming!” Lawson yells, and Connor hears someone else in the apartment scream. He doesn’t think it was the otter.

He and Lawson hurry down the hall in time to see Jakob Chychrun go hurtling over the couch and into the kitchen. Merks is curled up on his side, cowering under a pillow. The otter is standing up against the coffee table making a noise that Connor can only describe as a yodel. Someone bangs on the wall behind the television set.

“Make him stop,” Merks whimpers. 

Under any other circumstance, Connor might find this scene amusing. As it is, he’s staring at an otter that’s most likely his ex-best friend and has no idea what to do. “Dylan - “ he says, and then pauses because he doesn’t know what he could say. Stop yodeling? It’s going to be okay? It sounds like an empty reassurance even in Connor’s head.

Dylan stops yodeling anyway. 

He stares at Connor with the same beady eyes that Connor saw on the phone the night before. When he tilts his head questioningly, Connor’s hit with a wave of nostalgia so strong all his lingering doubts about the otter being Dylan flee. He’s not sure how it happened, or how to fix it, but Connor knows with absolute certainty that the otter in Lawson’s living room is definitely Dylan Strome.

“Dylan,” Connor says again, and that seems to break the spell. Dylan squeaks excitedly, ducking under the coffee table and scrambling up onto the couch. Merks makes a terrified noise as Dylan runs up his side, and it takes Connor exactly half a second to realize what’s happening before it does. Dylan climbs over Merks, up onto the back of the couch, and then launches himself at Connor.

Connor catches him - because maybe they’re not friends anymore but Connor’s not about to just let Dylan become an otter pancake on the ground - and it’s not unlike catching a medicine ball. Dylan’s _big_ , and he’s hard to catch. He smacks into Connor’s chest and Connor manages to get one arm around Dylan’s middle and the other sort of scrabbling at his back. Dylan, in turn, tries to scramble up Connor’s shirt, which hurts _a lot_. Connor’s not surprised Lawson’s got scratches on his collarbones.

“Don’t drop him!” Lawson says, but he unhelpfully stays two feet away with his hockey stick held between them. 

Connor doesn’t know a lot about otters. He didn’t think Dylan was going to be this long, or heavy. Then again, Dylan the human has always been taller and heavier than average, so maybe Connor shouldn’t be that surprised. He scoops Dylan’s back legs up and flips him around so that he’s sort of cradling the otter like he might with a baby. Dylan blinks up at him and then claps his paws gleefully.

Jesus, he has _paws_.

“Are you an otter whisperer?”

Connor looks up from Dylan to where Merks is peeking over the back of the couch. He’s definitely missing a tuft of hair near his temple. Dylan hisses at him.

“Be nice,” Connor says absently, and Dylan purrs obediently. 

“You are an otter whisperer,” Merks says reverently, and finally puts his pillow shield down. “Oh my god, you’ve saved us.”

Connor’s not really sure what to do. He’s not entirely confident that putting Dylan down won’t result in someone being mauled, but he doesn’t really want to carry Dylan around everywhere either. Dylan, on the other hand, seems perfectly content to be held. He nuzzles Connor’s chest and chirps happily.

“What do I with him?” Connor asks, and Merks frowns.

“That’s why we called you,” he says. “Because we thought you’d know.”

Connor fixes Merks with a stare. “Why on Earth do you think I would know what to do with an otter?”

Merks shrugs as Lawson says, “It wasn’t so much the otter part. It was the Dylan part that we thought you’d be able to take care of.”

Connor looks down at Dylan again. They don’t know, he realizes. Dylan never told them about their falling out, which is surprising because Connor knows that while he doesn’t always mean to be, Dylan can be vindictive. He’d want as many people in his corner over this as he could have, and the fact that he didn’t tell Lawson or Merks means something.

“I, uh. Well. He’s still an otter,” he says lamely. 

“An otter who hates all of us,” Jakob Chychrun says, poking his head out from the kitchen. As if on cue, Dylan hisses at him too. “He can’t stay here anymore.”

“Uh, what?” Connor asks, but Merks is nodding in agreement.

“I’m legitimately afraid to go to sleep at night,” he says. “We lock him in the bathroom but I swear, I don’t sleep because he’s either yelling or because I’m scared he’ll escape and claw my eyes out in the night.”

Dylan chuckles, so Connor pinches his back. 

“What am I supposed to do?” Connor asks. He’d sort of been assuming that he’d show up and either get to spend the night on Lawson’s couch and everything would sort itself out, or his services wouldn’t be needed and he could go back to Toronto. Now he has an otter and nowhere to sleep.

“Okay, well, see, I thought this one through,” Jakob says. Connor doesn’t really know what to expect, but he’s getting tired of holding a 20-pound otter, so he figures he’ll take what he can get.

 

What he gets is a cat carrier with a very cranky otter and a suite at a hotel downtown.

The receptionist looks skeptical about the cat carrier.

“I’m, um, a researcher,” Connor says, which sounds stupid in his head and even stupider out loud, but Dylan also won’t shut up and it’s becoming increasingly more obvious that there isn’t a cat in the carrier. “Otters.”

“Oh, cute,” the receptionist says. “I love otters.”

Dylan snorts.

Connor pastes a bland media smile onto his face and watches the receptionist swipe his credit card. Another expense, but all in the name of an otter. Connor can’t help but shake his head a little.

“Alright, Mr. McDavid,” the receptionist says, handing him back his credit card along with a receipt. She also pushes a key card across the counter. “You’re all set to go. Enjoy your stay and, uh. Good luck with your research.”

Dylan screeches happily before Connor can answer.

The suite isn’t that fancy, but it’s got plenty of room for Dylan to run around, plus a bathtub separate from the shower. Back at Lawson’s, they’d kept the bathtub filled for Dylan to swim around in, but it also meant they all had to share the ensuite shower, which was apparently inconvenient. 

Connor lets Dylan out of the cat carrier and then sits down on the bed. When he imagined being in the same room as Dylan again, he hadn’t really pictured it like this.

“How’d you manage to turn yourself into an otter, anyway?” Connor asks.

Dylan huffs, like the question offends him, and continues to snuffle around under the big kitchen table in the main part of the suite.

Connor wonders if he should call someone, but who would he call and what he say? Hi Mr. Orr, my best friend got turned into an otter, what should I do? Sid, hi, what do you if your friend gets turned into an otter? Hallsy, has a friend of yours every accidentally turned into an otter? Every avenue sounds stupid, so Connor flops back onto the bed instead.

There’s a small chuckling sound coming from the end of the bed, and then soft pressure against Connor’s knees. Connor sits up and looks down at where Dylan’s standing up against him, looking hopeful and adorable.

“What?” Connor asks. Dylan lifts his paws in response.

Lifting an otter onto a bed is more difficult than a dog, solely for the fact that Dylan is like, two feet long and kicks a lot when Connor lets his back legs dangle too much.

“Stop squirming,” Connor chastises, and Dylan chirps, like he’s arguing back. Connor can practically hear him saying, “ _Then pick me up properly!_ ”

There’s not a lot for Dylan to do once he’s on the bed. He traipses around a little and Connor watches him warily in case he falls off. It seems like it would be difficult to explain to the Coyotes that Dylan sustained an injury while falling off a bed as an otter.

It’s kind of weird to think that this is the first time they’ve been together since they essentially broke off their friendship. Connor’s chest aches a little and - before he can think better of it - he reaches out for Dylan. 

Dylan freezes, eyeing Connor’s hand suspiciously, and Connor belatedly remembers that he’d seen Dylan bite Lawson on Facetime before Dylan comes stumbling over to rub his head against Connor’s hand.

Dylan’s fur is short and smooth. It’s not particularly soft, but it’s nice. Comforting, Connor thinks. Dylan makes a happy purring noise and arches into the touch. It reminds Connor of when they used to curl up together on the bus when they both played for the Otters. Sometimes Connor would scratch a hand through Dylan’s hair and Dylan would always hum happily. 

The urge to cry hits Connor sort of like how Dylan had hit him after jumping off the back of Lawson’s couch. He sort of wants to double-over, curl in on the ache in his chest, but he doesn’t think he should. For as much as he’s freaking out and feeling bad, he can’t imagine what Dylan’s feeling. He’s the one that actually got turned into an otter.

Something cold and wet touches Connor’s elbow, and before Connor can react, Dylan’s climbing into his lap. He sits up, puts his front paws on Connor’s collarbones and then - licks his chin. Connor’s so surprised he flops back on the bed in an attempt to get away.

“Gross, Stromer,” he says, and Dylan chuckles again, before arranging himself in a donut on Connor’s stomach. He’s still heavy, but now the weight feels comforting, rather than intrusive.

“Nap time, eh?” Connor asks. He carefully scoots himself up the bed so that his legs aren’t dangling off the end and his head is on a pillow. Dylan snuffles into his shirt, but otherwise doesn’t complain. It’s about as nice as it can be, falling asleep with an otter that’s supposed to be human, and Connor lets himself be lulled to sleep by Dylan’s soft otter snores.

 

Connor dreams of Dylan.

It must be a dream because Dylan’s hair is still bleached at the tips, long and curling over his forehead like it had when they’d been Otters together. They’re sitting at the kitchen table in the suite on opposite sides of the round table.

“Hi,” Connor says, for lack of anything better to say.

“Hi,” Dylan echoes. His hands are folded neatly in front of him, but his head is tilted to the side curiously. “What are you doing here?”

Connor kind of wants to ask the same thing because this is _his_ dream, thank you very much, but he figures that might be counterproductive. Or as counterproductive as one gets when dreaming. 

“Um, Merks and Crouser asked me to help,” he says. “You’re an otter.”

“Once an Otter, always an Otter,” Dylan recites. Then: “I’m still mad at you.”

Connor bites his lip. “I’m sorry,” he says, because he’s not sure what else to say. 

“Do you know how it feels yet?” Dylan asks. His voice is so calm, it’s kind of eerie. “What it feels like to lose like I have?”

“Dylan - “ Connor starts, because he doesn’t. Even losing in playoffs this year isn’t anything compared to how close Dylan’s come and then lost. Dylan cuts him off with the wave of one hand, though. He stands, and Connor moves to copy him except he can’t. It’s like he’s stuck to his chair. “Dylan,” he repeats, but this time it comes out pleading.

“Come find me again when you’ve figured it out,” Dylan says. Connor can’t quite twist far enough in his chair to see where Dylan goes, but he hears the sound of the door opening and closing as Dylan walks out on him. And then there’s nothing.

 

Connor wakes up in a panic. At first he thinks it’s because of the dream, and then he realizes it’s mostly because he can’t breathe. He’s not sure when or why, but Dylan’s managed to settle himself across most of Connor’s face.

“Dyls,” he says, but it sort of comes out like, “duuhhhh,” underneath all the fur. 

Dylan makes a sleepy snuffling sound and doesn’t move, so Connor reaches up and pushes Dylan off his face. The effort earns him a disgruntled yowl.

Connor scrubs a hand over his face and then rolls over to look at Dylan, currently in the process of squirming around on his back in the sheets.

“Got an itch?” Connor asks, and Dylan rolls over immediately. His tail swishes gently against the comforter. 

Connor drags his hand down Dylan’s back, pausing when Dylan squeaks, and begins to scratch. Dylan’s tail thumps against the bed and he’s making that cute chuckling noise again. Connor wasn’t really aware that otters had so many noises in their vocabulary, but maybe it’s just Dylan. 

Even after the itch has been scratched, Connor lets his hand linger on Dylan’s back. He strokes the fur gently and tries to shake the heavy feeling his dream left him with. “What am I going to do with you?” Connor asks quietly. Dylan chuckles again and then rolls over so that Connor can pet the soft fur on his belly. It makes Dylan giggle, like it tickles.

Lots of things about Dylan the otter remind Connor of Dylan the human too. Dylan’s stomach was always his ticklish spot. He was always talking. He was feisty and protective of the things he cared about, and he cared so, so much. Connor’s heart aches a little.

He’s saved from his emotions by his stomach growling. The clock on the bedside table reads seven in the evening, which means Connor slept longer than he meant to. He needs some food, which suddenly reminds him - 

What do otters eat?

Dylan’s looking at him expectantly, and he chirps excitedly when Connor retrieves the room service menu from the desk in the corner. When Connor comes back to the bed, Dylan climbs into his lap, as if he can read the menu too.

“Can you read?” Connor asks, curious, but Dylan doesn’t say anything, just smacks his paws against the menu like a small child. Which he sort of is. He’s just as dependent and just as non-verbal as a baby would be.

Connor orders salmon and Dylan chirps happily the entire time he’s placing the order on the phone. When he’s done, he comes back to the bed and stands at the end, looking at Dylan. Connor still has no idea how to change Dylan back, and in the meantime, he’s not really sure what he should be doing with Dylan. 

“Uh, what do you want to do?” he asks, because that seems reasonable. Talking to an otter. Totally normal.

Dylan squeaks and comes loping over to the end of the bed. He stands up on his back legs, wobbling a little before placing his front paws on Connor’s chest and looking up expectantly. 

“I’m not picking you up,” Connor says as he does just that. It’s hard to say no to an otter, apparently. Dylan puts his front paws on Connor’s shoulder, peering at the suite while Connor hooks one arm under Dylan’s butt and secures the other around his back. They must look pretty stupid, Connor thinks, and tries to avoid any of the mirrors in the suite.

He’s not really sure what Dylan wants so he just sort of bounces him around the suite, like he might with a baby, and talks. “The wallpaper’s kind of ugly in here, isn’t it?” he asks when they walk back out to the main room. Dylan hums in agreement. Or, Connor assumes it’s agreement. 

He goes over to the window and looks out at the city. Everything is kind of an unfortunate shade of brown, dust and sand and dirt blanketing almost everything. 

“Do you like it here?” Connor asks quietly. “In Arizona? Are you happy here?”

Dylan seems to sigh, and he nuzzles Connor’s ear affectionately. Connor’s never asked Dylan about Arizona, has never thought to. While they were still friends Dylan had only come out to Glendale for training camps. Connor had thought that that hadn’t been enough time to gain an impression of a city. Maybe he should have asked sooner.

_record scratch, freeze frame, rewind._

“It’s pretty hot,” Connor continues because the silence feels oppressive. Reminiscent of the silence between them for the past year. “I guess it gets better during the season, right? Not quite like it is now.”

He keeps talking, making little comments about buildings that he sees or the people walking by on the street far below them. Dylan used to invent stories about people they’d see out the bus window as they rolled into a new city. His commentary always used to make Connor laugh, so he aims for something similar here. 

“That man down there? I bet he’s a corporate lawyer or something. But secretly at night he goes out to the karaoke bars and brings down the house with his flawless Whitney Houston covers,” Connor says. Dylan snorts and then chuckles. If Connor weren’t holding an actual otter in his arms, he might’ve thought Dylan had actually been there.

Connor has to put Dylan down to get the room service. He considers locking Dylan in the bedroom after his mad dash for freedom at Lawson’s, but all he says is, “Please don’t run out the door,” and goes to get their dinner. When he comes back, Dylan’s standing up against one of the chairs at the kitchen table, squeaking incessantly. 

Sitting at the table reminds Connor of his dream, but the Dylan he’s at the table with in waking seems to be much more amicable than dream-Dylan had been. He chirps happily when Connor pushes pieces of salmon to the side of the plate for him, and he chews with his mouth wide open, which is pretty much like any meal Connor’s ever had with Dylan. 

“You’re kind of gross,” Connor comments, which earns him a piece of broccoli thrown at him. “You have to eat that,” he adds, tossing the broccoli back to Dylan. Dylan eyes it suspiciously, and Connor wonders belatedly if otters even eat vegetables. 

By the time they’re done there’s a mess of salmon on the table and all over Dylan as well. Connor didn’t think an animal could be this messy. He cleans up the table as best he can and then scoops Dylan up and takes him to the bathroom. 

The bathtub is huge, and Dylan squeaks excitedly as soon as he sees it, like he knows that Connor’s going to give him everything his tiny otter heart desires by filling the tub. Connor puts Dylan down on the edge of the tub, tries to pick off some of the chunks of salmon from his fur, and then starts filling the tub.

Dylan seems to keep up a running commentary of the tub’s progress, making the same squeaks and chuckles that Connor’s gotten used to (it’s only been half a day and Connor’s already _used to the sounds Dylan makes as an otter what the hell_ ). His tail swishes against the tiles. 

Connor watches Dylan in the bathtub for a long time. Dylan seems so carefree here - happy, even - and Connor wonders when Dylan stopped being happy around him. He wonders if Dylan found happiness in the year they’ve been apart.

And that’s the thing, really. Besides the obvious animal transformation, Connor knows they’ve both changed a lot in the past year. Connor feels more confident in himself: he knows he’s a good leader and he knows he’s a great NHL hockey player. He’s gotten better at public speaking and feels less awkward around a camera (though he knows he doesn’t _look_ less awkward, but that can be worked on next season). Connor watches Dylan swim lazy laps and wonders how much Dylan has changed.

Dylan pops his head above the water and squeaks. Connor stares at him, unsure. He doesn’t know what Dylan wants, but he does know that Dylan bores - or at least used to get bored - easily. He didn’t exactly come to Arizona with otter-approved playthings though.

Connor’s eye catches on the little tray of complimentary shower goods. “Don’t eat this,” he warns, picking up the bottle of shower gel and showing Dylan. He thinks that if he could, Dylan would be rolling his eyes, so he tosses the bottle into the water and watches Dylan chase after it.

They play a strange proximity of fetch after that. Sometimes Dylan will roll around in the water with the bottle, and sometimes he’ll bring it back to Connor so that he can go diving after it when Connor throws it. It’s comforting in a way, but the bathroom still feels too quiet with only the sounds of the water and Dylan’s occasional squeaks to break up the silence.

“The NHL is really cool,” Connor says, before he can psych himself out. “Like, really overwhelming and crazy but - it’s literally the best, Dyls.”

Dylan chirps in acknowledgement. He’s paddling around, the bottle of shower gel forgotten at the bottom of the tub.

Connor watches for a moment, quiet, before adding, “It’s way more work; I’m sure you know that already. But it’s worth it. I’ve never - I’ve never been so excited to play hockey.”

Dylan stops swimming abruptly, lets his back legs touch the bottom of the tub before reaching out for Connor. Connor fumbles with a towel and scoops Dylan out of the bath, wrapping him up tightly before he can shake the water off his fur and all over the bathroom. Dylan yowls, but Connor thinks it’s more of an obligated complaint than anything actually hurting. Typical Dylan, really. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” Connor whispers, rubbing at Dylan’s head with the towel. Dylan makes a soft snuffling sound, shifting around in Connor’s lap. “I didn’t want - I didn’t want you to be upset. I thought maybe you’d be jealous.”

Dylan makes another yowling sound, but this time it sounds angry. He thrashes around, squirming enough that Connor loses his grip on both the towel and the otter inside it. They both go tumbling off of Connor’s lap and hit the tiled floor with a soft _whump!_

“Dylan!” Connor exclaims, scrambling off the edge of the tub to kneel down next to where Dylan’s managed to extract himself from the towel. When Connor reaches out to him, Dylan hisses and bares his teeth. It’s a reaction that Connor hasn’t had directed his way since he was appointed Dylan’s caretaker, and it makes him recoil. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised though; if Dylan were human it’s probably the same kind of reaction Connor’d receive anyway.

It still stings more than he thought it would.

“Dylan - “ he tries again, but Dylan makes a sad, wounded noise and curls up in the damp towel on the floor. Connor waits a moment longer, but when Dylan doesn’t acknowledge him, he gets up and goes to get ready for bed.

 

Connor falls asleep while Dylan’s still sulking in the bathroom. He doesn’t mean to, but Dylan’s being salty (nothing new) and Connor’s tired of waiting for him to come around (also nothing new).

In the end it doesn’t matter because Connor dreams of Dylan again. This time, they’re sitting on the edge of the bathtub together. There’s no water in it, but the bottle of shower gel is still lying at the bottom. 

“I’m not jealous of you,” Dylan says, apropos of nothing. Except for the one-sided conversation Connor had had with otter-Dylan, but he doesn’t know how dream-Dylan knows this.

_It’s all in your head, you dummy,_ Connor’s brain supplies, which, right.

“I never said you were,” he replies, and that makes Dylan laugh. It’s hollow sounding, though, mirthless.

“But you were worried I would be,” Dylan continues. “It’s never been about that, Connor, and if you really thought it was then I guess you didn’t really know me at all.”

Connor’s chest feels tight. It’s true that he often worried that Dylan was jealous of him, but he never really _believed_ it. Or at least, he doesn’t think he did.

“This is your fault, you know.” Dylan’s looking down at the bottle of shower gel in the bathtub. “You stopped talking to me. It’s like you stopped caring.”

“Dylan - “

“You made me feel so _alone_ , Davo.”

It feels like a blow to the stomach. The tight feeling in his chest seems to expand, squeezing so tightly around him that Connor feels dizzy with it. He never wanted Dylan to feel left behind or forgotten; he hadn’t even thought that that’s what had happened. 

“I didn’t mean - Dylan - You have to understand - “ 

Dylan stands, and just like during the last dream, Connor feels rooted to his perch on the edge of the tub.

“You have to fix it, Connor,” Dylan says without looking back. “You’re, like, the saviour or something, right?” 

Connor’s always hated that title, that mantle that he’s held up since being drafted by the Oilers, and Dylan knows that. Still, the barb doesn’t hurt nearly as much as watching Dylan walk out on him again.

 

Connor wakes up to his alarm beeping at him from where he left his phone on the bedside table. Except it’s still pitch black outside when he opens his eyes and the clock says it’s one in the morning. He’s also drenched in sweat, and his throat feels dry and achey, like he’d been breathing through his mouth or something.

The alarm is still beeping, except now that Connor’s awake he realizes it’s not an alarm but an otter. Dylan’s standing up against the side of the bed, chirping worriedly and banging his small paws against the mattress.

Connor rolls over and, with Dylan’s help, manages to haul the otter up onto the bed. Dylan bowls him over onto his back and then clambers up onto his chest. The weight shouldn’t help with how tight Connor’s chest feels still, but then Dylan leans down and presses his nose to Connor’s and some of the tension eases out of his muscles.

“Hey, buddy,” Connor says softly, letting Dylan nuzzle his cheek. His whiskers tickle a little.

Dylan chirps sadly, but Connor hear it for what it is: an apology. He lets Dylan settle underneath his chin and then strokes a hand down Dylan’s back. “I’m sorry too,” he whispers. “For leaving you alone.” He means both on the bathroom floor as well as in the OHL. 

Dylan purrs and on a whim, Connor tilts his chin down and presses a kiss between Dylan’s ears. It feels nice, this truce they’ve come to, and between one breath and the next, Connor falls back asleep.

 

Dylan’s still lying on his chest when Connor wakes up the next morning, which is a welcome change to waking up with Dylan on his face. Dylan grumbles sleepily when Connor shifts him onto the mattress, but he does purr when Connor tries to placate him with another kiss between his ears.

Waking up with Dylan isn’t a new thing either, really. They used to share a bed occasionally if they stayed up too late watching movies together, or if one of them was feeling particularly homesick. Dylan’s a tactile person, and while Connor’s never been quite as touchy-feely, he always enjoyed Dylan’s cuddles. They were warm and familiar and felt safe. 

Connor doesn’t have anything like that in Edmonton. Sure, he has friends, and he has friends that will marathon movies and Netflix with him on an off day, but no one quite like Dylan. And it’s not like Connor needs affection to thrive like Dylan does, but he had missed curling up with Dylan on the couch and just hanging out for awhile.

The memories make Connor a little misty-eyed, so he takes a couple deep breaths to fortify himself, and then grabs his toothbrush. He figures crying into his toothpaste isn’t a great way to start the day.

Dylan’s still snoozing in bed when Connor’s done in the bathroom, which isn’t a surprise. The only thing Dylan loves more than hockey is sleep, so Connor grabs the extra pillows and props himself up against the headboard to scroll through his phone. He’s still not exactly sure what he’s supposed to do with Dylan besides keep him alive, and now that he’s accepted the whole friend-is-an-otter situation, he figures he should do some research or something.

What he ends up doing is looking at YouTube videos of otters and subsequently feeling all warm and fuzzy inside.

After an hour, Connor’s watched enough otter videos that his entire recommended section are just more otter videos, and Dylan’s wormed his way into the crook of Connor’s arm. He chuckles sleepily when Connor scratches him under the chin.

This feels nice, and even though Connor would prefer Dylan to be human, he thinks maybe he can work with this opportunity. If he wants any chance of repairing his friendship with Dylan when Dylan transforms back, he’s going to need to start now, even if Dylan’s an otter.

“I have an idea,” Connor says, putting his phone on the bedside table and wriggling around so that he’s lying flat on the bed. He hauls Dylan onto his chest, feeling a little giddy with the plan formulating in his head. Dylan still looks reasonably sleepy, but he doesn’t yowl when Connor moves him, and he doesn’t squirm either. He looks at Connor with a curious tilt to his head and then leans down to press his nose against the corner of Connor’s mouth.

Connor laughs, turns his head and presses a kiss to Dylan’s whiskery cheek. “It’ll be fun. I think you’ll like it.”

Dylan just yawns, but he lets Connor pick him up and settle him on the desk. He puts his chin on his paws as he watches Connor drag the desk chair and then one of the kitchen chairs to the end of the bed.

It takes Connor a moment to get it all set up, but once he does, he thinks it looks pretty good. He’d been inspired by one video (or six) where he’d watched otters sliding down a snowy hill on their bellies. There’s no snow in Arizona, but there are big fluffy comforters and lots of pillows.

“Ta-dah!” Connor says, throwing his arms out dramatically. Dylan looks at him skeptically. 

“No, hey, look at this,” Connor says. He grabs his phone, pulls up one of the videos, and then plays it. Dylan gets about ten seconds into the video before he starts squeaking excitedly, all traces of sleepiness gone. Connor knew this would be a good idea. 

He scoops Dylan up and carries him over to the top of the slide. It’s not that tall, comes up to the middle of Connor’s chest, but standing at the top of it with an otter in his arms puts things in perspective. Dylan hums nervously and Connor bends and kisses the spot between his ears. 

“It’ll be okay,” Connor says. “I won’t let anything happen to you.” He perches Dylan on the highest point of the slide and then lets go.

The problem is, really, that Connor didn’t account for the fact that Dylan is a 20-pound otter and therefore, rather heavy. Therefore, two things happen in very quick succession:

1\. Dylan drops straight through the space between the two chairs Connor had set up and hits the floor with a resounding _whump_. 

2\. As a result of the aforementioned thing, Dylan straight up screams.

It’s kind of a terrifying noise, really, and Connor trips over himself trying to fish Dylan out of the comforter that’s collapsed around him. “It’s okay, it’s okay!” Connor says. Dylan continues to make distressed noises.

Connor manages to lift one more fold of the comforter before Dylan goes shooting out from under the covers and scampering off into the rest of the suite. The slide is a bit of a mess, and there may be a tear in the comforter from Dylan’s claws, but it’s sort of the least of Connor’s worries. He’s about to follow Dylan when the phone rings.

The hotel phone.

Connor gives himself a moment to compose himself before picking up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Mr. McDavid, hello,” the receptionist says. It’s a different person than the one who checked him in yesterday. “We’ve had a couple of phone calls to report a strange noise coming from your suite. We wanted to check in and make sure you were alright.”

A strange noise. The poor guy’s too polite to say a high pitched scream.

“Uh, yeah, I’m fine,” Connor says, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. It’s not a lie, and Dylan’s not yelling anymore either. “Um. I don’t know if your colleague mentioned it but I’m a researcher with an otter. And um. He’s okay too. Just. Fell.”

The receptionist makes an inquisitive sound, but doesn’t push. “Glad to hear you and, uh, your otter are doing well. However, perhaps try and keep the noise down. We don’t want to alarm any of our other guests.”

“Of course, of course,” Connor says. His face feels as hot as the sun. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the receptionist says, and then hangs up.

By the time Connor finds Dylan hiding behind the curtains in the main room, he still hasn’t managed to shake the last threads of embarrassment. He can’t believe the front desk _phoned_ him, like he’s a child that needs checking in on. 

“Dyls?” Connor asks, crouching down. The curtain quivers.

Connor also feels embarrassed about the slide in general. He thought it’d been a good idea and he had promised Dylan that nothing would happen to him. Instead, he’d let Dylan fall.

It’s kind of a sick metaphor, really, for how their relationship played out the last couple years.

“I’m really sorry,” Connor whispers. He sits down and pulls his knees to his chest. “I wanted to do something nice for you, take your mind off of the whole ‘being-an-otter’ thing but. I wasn’t careful enough. I messed up.”

Dylan peeks out from behind the curtain. He chuckles nervously, but comes over to sniff curiously at Connor’s knees anyways.

“I wish we hadn’t stopped being friends,” Connor says. His voice sounds dangerously wobbly. “I miss you so much. I know I said being in the NHL is the best, and it is, but it’s hard too.”

Dylan snuffles a little and then squeezes himself into the space between Connor’s chest and his knees. He’s warm, and he makes soothing little noises, and Connor can’t really help it when he feels tears start to pool at the corners of his eyes.

“I wanted to tell you,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut. More tears trail down his cheeks. “I didn’t want you to think I was ungrateful for the opportunity. You were still in Erie and I wasn’t and - I wanted you to think that everything was okay, but sometimes it wasn’t.”

Dylan licks his face, which is sort of gross but mostly just makes Connor cry harder. It doesn’t seem fair that Dylan’s the one in a pickle and yet he’s the one taking care of Connor, but it’s always been like this. 

“I’m sorry I was such a bad friend,” Connor whispers, and Dylan chirps sadly. He nuzzles Connor’s face and Connor curls in tighter around him, creating a small safe place.

It feels relieving to admit it out loud, a thought so troublesome that Connor hadn’t spent too much time mulling over since their breakup. If he could go back in time, he knows now what he would do, how he would fix it:

_record scratch, freeze frame._ Yep, that’s me. You’re probably wondering how I got here. _rewind._

He’d spend more time talking to Dylan. He’d _make_ the time. Connor can look back and see every instance of when he played hours upon hours of video games with Hallsy, or went out for lunch with Nuge, instead of keeping in touch with people that matter to him. It reminds him of some of the drunken thoughts he had when Merks had first called two days ago: it’d been so long since they’d talked. Why had Connor let it go for so long?

If he could go back, Connor would make sure Dylan knew that he cared, that Dylan mattered to him. He’d tell Dylan all about the NHL and offer a little bit of advice on being a captain and push him to be the best hockey player in the league. 

He thinks maybe, after all that, he wouldn’t have to keep trying to rewind.

 

Eventually they have to get up off the floor. Connor cradles Dylan to his chest and heads back to the bedroom. When he’s greeted with the mess of the failed slide, though, he hesitates.

Dylan squirms in his arms and Connor sets him down before he accidentally drops Dylan (again). He expects Dylan to run out of the room, but instead Dylan goes snuffling around in the sheets. After another moment, Dylan pops up next to one of the chairs and chirps expectantly.

Connor doesn’t really know what Dylan wants. There isn’t really an effective way to communicate with an otter, no matter how expressive Dylan’s been, but Connor walks over to the chair anyway. “What’s up?” he asks.

Dylan leans into the chair and it tilts unexpectedly. Connor’s hand shoots out to steady it, but Dylan keeps leaning, like he’s trying to push it over.

Or move it.

Connor pulls the chair over so that it’s right next to the other, and then picks up the pillows that Dylan noses towards him. He piles them on the chairs and on the ground until he’s made a sort of ramp. Then he lifts the comforter back over the mound.

It’s a smaller slide than what he made before, but it looks more functional. Dylan chuckles, puttering around at the base of the slide until Connor tentatively picks him up and puts him at the top of the pillow pile.

“Are you sure?” Connor asks. He pets nervously at Dylan’s back while keeping one hand across Dylan’s chest. “I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

Dylan bites at Connor’s thumb gently and then licks over the spot, as if to say, “ _I trust you._ ” Connor’s heart feels full and fragile.

“Okay,” he says quietly. He helps Dylan lie down on his belly and then lets go.

Dylan squeals happily as he slides down the mountain of pillows, and Connor can’t help but laugh as well. He hadn’t realized he’d been so nervous. 

They play with the slide for a few more minutes before Connor’s stomach protests loudly. He’d been so excited and then emotional earlier that he hadn’t ordered breakfast. “Sorry,” Connor says apologetically to Dylan. He puts him at the top of the slide one more time before going over to the phone to call room service.

The rest of the day passes slowly. Connor’s still not sure what he should be doing about changing Dylan back, but he’s enjoying the time he’s spending with Dylan regardless. He puts Dylan in the bathtub while he cleans up the slide, and then they spend a truly exceptional amount of time lying in bed watching bad television shows. Connor lets Dylan run around the suite when he gets a little stir crazy, and he orders a small dish of ice cream in the afternoon for them to share.

It’s nice.

“I used to try and talk to you all the time, my first year up,” Connor says, digging his spoon into the ice cream. Dylan’s lying on a towel, chuckling happily as he licks at the dessert. “Something funny would happen and I’d turn around to tell you and you wouldn’t be there.”

Connor sighs and scoops the last bit of his ice cream out of the bowl before nudging it closer to Dylan. “It took a while to get used to you not being around, but I think it was harder to get used to not having you at all.”

Dylan chirps, this consoling little sound, before gobbling up the rest of the ice cream. Connor watches, amused, until Dylan yowls and rolls over onto his back, clutching at his head.

“Dylan?” Connor asks, knocking over the empty dish of ice cream in his haste. Dylan just keeps rolling around making sad noises, and Connor feels his heart squeeze painfully. What if something’s wrong? He doesn’t know anything about otters. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to give Dylan ice cream. 

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh,” Connor mutters, pulling Dylan into his arms and cradling him like a baby. 

It takes another moment, but finally, Dylan calms down. He stares up at Connor’s worried expression and then licks his own nose. Connor frowns.

Dylan frowns back. Then, he reaches one paw up and smacks the side of his own face before shivering all over. He stares pointedly at Connor.

_Brain freeze,_ Connor thinks after a long moment.

“Oh my gosh,” he breathes, laughing a little in relief. “You scared me so much.”

Dylan chuckles and nuzzles Connor’s chest before settling into the crook of Connor’s arm. He fits perfectly, Connor thinks helplessly.

He and Dylan have always fit together well. They made a lethal power play unit on the ice and a dynamic poker playing duo off it. Connor’s mom had once told him that he and Dylan had the perfect personalities for each other: enough similarities that they could relate to each other, but enough differences to keep each other interested. 

“Hey,” Connor says after a moment, noticing the knocked over ice cream bowl. It thankfully landed on the towel, so he doesn’t think there’s much damage to their (already slightly shredded) comforter. “You’re all sticky. Up for another bath?”

Dylan chirps excitedly, tail swishing gently at Connor’s side, and Connor can’t help it. He leans down and presses a kiss right between Dylan’s eyes. 

Dylan coughs, clearly surprised, but he licks Connor’s chin before he can pull away. He grins, sneaky and familiar, and Connor feels something slot into place in his chest, like it’d been gone for awhile and he hadn’t noticed until it came home.

“Come on,” he says hoarsely, standing up and heading for the bathroom. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

 

After dinner, Connor puts a random movie on the television and crawls into bed with Dylan. It feels nice to have Dylan curled up under his chin, listening to his soft noises like it’s running commentary for the film. Knowing Dylan, it probably is.

Connor’s spent a day and a half with Dylan as an otter and already, this feels familiar - domestic, even - but he wishes that his Dylan were with him instead. The human Dylan.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. His breath makes Dylan’s ears twitch. “I’m so, so, sorry, Dylan. I miss you so much. Please come back.”

Dylan hums sadly and turns so that he can look at Connor. His eyes look sad, and Connor hates that. He hates that maybe he’s been a source of Dylan’s sadness for the past two years.

“I love you,” he whispers. He didn’t know he was going to say it before he did, but the words feel true on his tongue. As true as anything he’s said to Dylan today.

_As close as two people could be,_ Connor’s mom says in his head.

Dylan makes a soft noise and leans up, pressing his nose against Connor’s. It’s cold, and a little wet, but Connor doesn’t mind. He also doesn’t mind when Dylan licks his cheek, close to the corner of his mouth. 

“Dylan, please,” Connor says. He suddenly feels sleepy, like if he were to close his eyes he’d fall asleep immediately, but he doesn’t want to look away from Dylan. Not now that he finally _knows_.

Dylan licks him again and then settles on his chest, tucking himself under Connor’s chin. He makes a sound, like he’s saying, “ _Connor, go to sleep,_ ” so Connor closes his eyes. The last thing he remembers is a voice inside his head chanting, I love you, I love you, I love you.

 

Dylan’s waiting for Connor in his dreams.

Which sounds terribly cliched but Connor doesn’t care.

“Hi,” he says breathlessly. Dylan still has dumb bleached hair, but Connor can’t even bring himself to care about how ugly it looks. Just being able to see Dylan as a human is enough.

“Hi,” Dylan replies. He tilts his head, like he did the first time Connor saw him in his dreams. Like the first time Connor saw him as an otter, too. “You found me.”

“I thought you were waiting,” Connor replies. They’re standing in the bedroom of the suite at the end of the bed. Tentatively, Connor takes a step forward. 

Dylan hums and says, “I was waiting for you to find me.”

Connor’s heart is beating painfully hard in his chest. He remembers what Dylan had told him, that first dream while Connor napped: _Come find me when you figure it out._

Well, Connor knows now. He knows what it’s like to lose something the way Dylan has, to lose something he’s held onto so tightly and yet still let it slip through his fingers. He knows what it feels like, and he doesn’t want to feel it again.

“I love you,” he says for only the second time, although maybe it doesn’t count in a dream. “I want things to be better between us, Dylan. I’m sorry.”

Dylan nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I know,” he says. “Things will be better, you’ll see.”

For the first time, Dylan doesn’t end the dream. He doesn’t walk out on Connor, but the whole scene is fading to black and Connor tries desperately to cling to it. He’s afraid to wake up and find out that nothing’s changed, that things aren’t better. He’s afraid to wake up and find out Dylan’s still an otter.

“Dylan, wait!” he calls, but Dylan gets swallowed up by the darkness, which is when Connor startles himself awake. 

 

The first thing that registers is the hair in his mouth. It’s not his own because Connor’s hair isn’t that long. The second thing that registers is the heavy weight across his stomach, mostly because it’s hairless and appears to be attached to the warm body curled around Connor’s.

When Connor opens his eyes, he sees Dylan’s terrible two-toned hair and then his clean-shaven face when Dylan sits up.

It’s the best thing Connor’s seen in forever.

“Dylan,” Connor breathes out. He simultaneously feels giddy and nervous, like his heart might beat right out of his chest while his stomach does somersaults.

“Hey,” Dylan says softly, and Connor - Connor can’t not. Without thinking, he leans up and presses a kiss to Dylan’s lips.

Dylan kisses back, doesn’t hesitate, but he also doesn’t let it linger too much. He pulls back after only a moment and quirks a small smile. “We should talk a little before we get around to the kissing,” he says, which is the most sensible and therefore least-Dylan thing Connor’s ever heard him say.

“What’s there to talk about?” Connor asks impatiently, and Dylan laughs. He smooths his hand through Connor’s hair and then sits up.

Greedily, Connor catalogs the slope of Dylan’s shoulders, the wide expanse of his back. He’s never looked at Dylan like this before, not as something that he wants with a capital W. Without thinking, he reaches out to touch.

Dylan shivers a little and glances over his shoulder at Connor. He doesn’t look bothered - a little amused, maybe - but his voice sounds a little shaky when he says, “You got to say your piece, but I didn’t get to say mine.”

Which makes sense. Because Dylan was an otter for two days.

“Sorry,” Connor says immediately. His face feels a little hot. 

Dylan laughs a little. “It’s fine,” he says. “The kiss, that is. That was fine. But. I’m sorry too.”

“For?”

Dylan waves his hand around the room, trying to encompass everything and nothing at once. “Our fight. Not keeping in touch. I wasn’t jealous but I didn’t like the feeling of being a footnote on your chapter with the Otters. I think - I think I needed to figure out what kind of a player I was on my own before I could get over that, but I wish I had been able to do it without pushing you away.”

Dylan won’t quite meet his eye, so Connor sits up and nudges Dylan with his elbow. “You know I think you’re a great hockey player, right, Dyls?” he asks.

Dylan smiles, a soft and private thing. “Yeah, but I think I needed to convince myself more than anyone else.”

Connor nods. He gets that. 

“Everything else that season - World Juniors, getting blown out by the Knights in playoffs - I think I was worried that maybe I couldn’t achieve great things without you. And even though I fell short of all those things again this past season, I know now that I can. That I’m capable.”

He finally, _finally_ turns to look at Connor, his grin widening. “So, now that the big apologies and feelings are out of the way, let’s talk about that kiss, eh?”

Connor feels his face flush. “Is that - is that okay? I just thought - you didn’t mind when you were an otter.” Which sounds a little stupid, now that Connor’s said it out loud.

“Connor, I’ve wanted to kiss you since my rookie year,” Dylan says seriously, which - huh. Connor’s surprised; he didn’t think Dylan was that self-aware of his own feelings.

“Your rookie season?”

“Dumb, right?” Dylan asks. He flops over backwards and tugs on Connor’s arm so that he lies down too. “You weren’t even that cute.”

“Excuse you!” Connor exclaims, laughing a little. His heart still feels a little wild in his chest but the butterflies in his stomach are gone now. This is how it’s always been. Him and Dylan. “It’s not like you were any better looking!”

Dylan hums. “I can’t believe it took me turning into the cutest animal on the planet for you to realize that you were into me.”

Connor turns to look at Dylan. They’re close enough that he goes a little cross-eyed with it, but he doesn’t mind. On a whim, he leans forward and presses a kiss between Dylan’s eyes, like he had when Dylan had been an otter.

“That’s pretty soft, Connor,” Dylan chirps, but his face is fond. Connor loves him so much, so he says so. 

Dylan’s smile is so wide it looks like it might split his face. He leans in and kisses Connor, aggressive and hungry, like he’s waited - well, like he’s waited since his rookie year to do this.

“I love you too,” he says earnestly, and Connor’s heart stutters for a moment before kicking into double-time. He feels so happy he could float away on it. 

“Also,” Dylan adds, cutting through Connor’s haze of happiness. “It would appear that I don’t have any clothes. I’m going to need to borrow some, but before I do, maybe we should take advantage of this.” He waggles his eyebrows and Connor laughs.

“Whatever you say, Stromer,” he says, and pushes Dylan back against the pillows, kissing him like he won’t ever get to again.

**Author's Note:**

> [here's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5GyhFsJoiYc) a video of an otter making noises.
> 
> you can get in touch with me through my [twitter](http://twitter.com/lilcrickee) (my DMs are open!) or through my [tumblr](http://lilcrickee.tumblr.com).


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